


Nobody Parts No Sea

by activevirtues



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-23
Updated: 2009-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:09:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/activevirtues/pseuds/activevirtues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you really wanna know devotion, take heart in me - in my belief in you. Baby, I believe in you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Parts No Sea

_"That is how special a talent he is. He took on a Champions League Final and won it. Yes, it was a great team performance against Madrid but when Stevie is in that form he looks like he could take on any team on his own._

"He is the best player I have ever played with, and I have played with some great players with Spain and Liverpool.

"He could easily be the best player in the world."

\---

_United weren't overrun by wave upon wave of marauding grey shirts, they were picked apart more ruthlessly than that by a well-drilled, methodical outfit encapsulated by the mutual longing that is the Torres and Gerrard affair._

You know how it goes; Stevie loves Fernando, Fernando loves Stevie, Stevie only wants to pass to 'Nando, 'Nando tries desperately to hang on to the ball just that little bit longer so he doesn't have to pass to Dirk Kuyt because he wants to pass it straight to Stevie.

\---

Goal celebrations aside, Nando does his best not to touch Steven Gerrard unless he absolutely cannot avoid it. Goal celebrations are different – the rush of adrenaline, the roar of the crowd, running and running like he’s seven again and if he stretches his arms out he might lift off, and Stevie along with him. He can bury his nose in the crook of Stevie’s neck and breathe, and for a second everything he sees and hears and feels is brighter, sharper, like his world is coming into focus for the first time. On the pitch, when it happens, he can barely bring himself to let go.

It scares him a little. More than a little, truthfully, and he’s not quite sure what he’d do if there weren’t 50,000 screaming fans and eight hundred cameras around, so off the pitch, he does his best to avoid anything more than a handshake. It’s not like nobody can guess how much Fernando _admires_ Stevie. He’s said enough to fill a book on the subject – he doesn’t need a casual arm slung over his shoulder at training to tell Stevie how amazing it is to play alongside him.

This would be all well and good, except that Stevie doesn’t seem to get that Nando has set these boundaries for himself, and set them for a reason. And the more Nando tenses up when Stevie comes close, the more he seems bound and determined to get some sort of positive reaction out of Nando. It’s getting more and more awkward, almost at pre-Nando-speaking-English levels of awkwardness, when Stevie would speak _very slowly_ whenever Nando was around, no matter who he was talking to, until Pepe started joking that Nando made Stevie stupid. And then repeated it in Spanish, so Nando could understand.

It leaves Nando in the unfortunate situation of having to wank a whole lot, even for a twenty-four-year-old guy. Things that make Xabi Alonso swat Stevie away with an eyeroll and a, “You know, some of us have to work on our tackles,” make Nando disappear into the locker room for five minutes and then return with a flush that would be totally conspicuous except it’s fucking freezing in Liverpool and Nando’s been running for the past four hours.

And then it gets to the point where if Nando were paranoid he’d think Stevie _knew_, and was pushing his buttons just because he enjoyed watching Nando squirm.

It’s impossible, of course. There’s no way Stevie could know that sometimes, Nando does something stupid because he _knows_ Stevie will laugh, and up until last week a laugh came so rarely that Nando was having to work from old memories. There’s no way Stevie could know that Nando would have done more than get a painkilling shot in his foot if it meant the chance to pick apart, first, his own most hated team, and then Stevie’s, one after another, together. There’s no deal he wouldn’t have made, no chance he wouldn’t take, to share that with Stevie, and Stevie can’t know it’s for him. Stevie thinks it’s Nando’s dedication to the team, and it is. But that’s not all of it. That’s not even _most_ of it, these days.

But they’re both back, back to as full strength as they’re going to get this season, and that _special bond_ that they worked so damn hard to cultivate last season, that’s back too, stronger than it was before. And Stevie seems to think that the only way it can get even stronger – “We need to read each other’s _minds_, Nando – we can do this, we’re the only ones who can” – is through more touching than Nando can handle without handling himself after.

Which is how Nando finds himself after practice one unseasonably warm March day, jerking frantically into his hand in the farthest shower on the left, thanking Jesus, God, and whoever was the patron saint of footballers with inappropriate crushes on their captains that the FA has deemed one communal shower unsanitary. Their showers fit two or three, now, instead of the whole team. They’ve got _doors_, even, slidey ones that steam up quickly, and right now those doors are up there with electricity as Nando’s favorite invention of all time. He leans his head against the slick tile and swallows a moan as the shower beats against his bare back. He will get over this, he thinks, pulling faster at his cock. At some point, some point soon, Stevie will stroke a thumb over the back of his neck –

Then he remembers what put him in the shower in the first place, the warmth of Stevie’s hand at the nape of his neck, the brush of his thumb along the edge of Nando’s jaw, and Nando thinks, as he strokes himself faster, how Stevie could have pulled him in, met his mouth with a smile, how he would taste like he smelled, clean sweat and grass. At which point real life Stevie’s voice says, “Nando, you in here, mate?” and the door slides open and Nando slams his head against the tile as he comes, and the next thing he knows he’s waking up on the floor with his hand on his cock and Stevie standing over him, clearly trying _very hard_ not to laugh.

\---

“Well, the good news is you don’t have a concussion,” Stevie says as Nando clutches the icebag Stevie hands him like a lifeline.

“I know what is the bad news,” Nando mutters, and turns a slightly deeper shade of pink.

“You can’t help being clumsy,” Stevie says, grinning. “You were… distracted.”

“Please shut up,” Nando says, at which point Stevie does laugh, and despite the embarrassment Nando feels his cock twitch. Mother of God, he’s got problems.

Stevie says, “I think we can keep this between us,” and winks conspiratorially.

Nando closes his eyes and groans, and hopes Stevie thinks it’s because of the pain.

\---

After that, it just gets worse, and it gets worse by so much more that Nando has to start thinking that his captain has a cruel side. Xabi’s been injured and is out for a week and a half, and Stevie seems to think Nando would make a _great_ stretching partner. It mostly requires getting in positions that were completely unsexy with Dirk Kuyt, but with Stevie seem just short of pornographic. And Stevie grins the whole time, this grin that says “I know what you’re thinking” or “I’ve seen you wanking” or maybe just “Don’t you wish we were naked?” It’s Nando’s own personal hell, and he smiles like an idiot the entire time. He’s not really sure what else he could do.

If the stretching weren’t bad enough – which, to reiterate, _it is_ – Stevie steps up the touchy-feely business to a point where, if Stevie weren’t at least somewhat like this with most everyone on the team, people would start to wonder what the hell was going on. He is, though, moving from an arm slung around Nando’s shoulder to thwacking Lucas across the head (playfully, Nando is almost certain) to bumping knuckles with Pepe. And it lets Nando think, for a few minutes, that maybe he’s just imagining it, maybe he can ignore it and it will go away and everything will stop being so damn confusing.

And then, all of a sudden, it’s not confusing at all.

It happens like this: they’re alone. They shouldn’t be – they’re almost never alone, and Nando is pretty sure the last time they were alone Stevie was assuring him he didn’t have a concussion. But they are, and it’s late, and they’re watching tape of the last match – what they did right, for once, not what they did wrong.

Onscreen Stevie is stepping up to take a penalty, and Nando is holding his breath, because he knows what comes next. He _remembers_ what happens next. He sees himself, onscreen, barreling at top speed to Stevie, who is kissing the camera like this is the most joyous moment of his fucking life, and as he pulls away Nando sees himself over Stevie’s shoulder, grinning into his neck, and there’s so much want there, he can see it on his own face.

He looks over at Stevie – he can’t help it. And Stevie is looking at him, not him-on-the-screen but _him_, with this expression on his face that says it all: everything just clicked.

“I – “ Nando begins, but falters, because what is there to explain? It’s all there, written on his face, the possessive clutch of his hand at Stevie’s jersey, and it’s been a miracle Stevie hasn’t caught on sooner. So he shrugs, looks Stevie straight in the eyes. “Was a good penalty.”

As it turns out, Stevie is similarly unsure of what the hell to say. “Nando,” he begins, but nothing else comes out, and Nando watches him working it through and wonders when it’s going to come crashing down around his head. His life, his goals, his friendships – he is so afraid, in this moment, and all he can do is force his eyes to stay open and wait for it to come.

Stevie leans forward, opens his mouth to say – something profound, Nando is sure, something life-changing – and then goes further, pressing his parted lips to the corner of Nando’s mouth. It’s soft, and Nando can barely feel it – except that he can, of course, same as he can feel Stevie moving to the other corner, kissing there as well, gentle as a leaf settling on a still pond, and when his mouth drifts a little, opening up into a kiss, a real kiss, it seems nothing but natural to respond. He falls into it, the kiss, and Stevie’s breath is warm and sweet on Nando’s tongue. It’s everything Nando has wanted, and nothing like he imagined. Stevie’s hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer, his other hand tracing down Nando’s chest – it’s nothing like he’s imagined. It’s better.

They start out tentative, hands unsure and breath shaky, but it soon disappears, replaced with heat. Nando’s hands grip Stevie’s shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, as his fingers thread through Nando’s hair. Stevie pulls him close, and he sucks at the curve of Nando’s neck like he’s got all the time in the world to drive them both absolutely fucking crazy. Perhaps he does – perhaps this, here, is all that matters, and the world won’t dare to intrude on them until they’ve taken each other apart and put each other back together.

Perhaps this will last forever, Nando thinks. Perhaps this, right here, will be as much a part of history as nineteen or six or both. This is what they have, he thinks as he tugs Stevie’s shirt over his head and pulls him down, skin against skin as onscreen they celebrate Fabi’s goal. The traveling Kop is singing in the background – “Walk on, walk on” – and Stevie’s twisting against him, mouth and hands and hips. It’s bizarre and perfect and maybe it will last forever.

They can do it, Nando knows, and it’s not just wishful thinking. Together they can make history.


End file.
